Nightmares are Real
by Kinners
Summary: Haunted by the events of his fall and even those before it, Sherlock realizes that he is more scared than he lets on in the waking world. But who is to tell the almighty Sherlock Holmes that it's okay to be afraid of the dark? Who better than a Night Mare? (T for some graphic descriptions and themes)
1. Good Luck With That

"Good luck with that," murmured Moriarty, putting the barrel in his mouth.

The gunshot dwarfed Sherlock's cry of shock in its volume. But nothing could rival the heartrending sound that poured out of him when he saw the bleeding corpse on the floor before him. Not the hatefully dreamy face of his enemy, but the painfully innocent face of his only friend.

John's glassy eyes stared out into space.

Sherlock choked out a sob, crouching beside Watson as if he could will him back to life. He took John's hand in his, the cold fingers filling him with dread. But the hand pulled away from him, and Watson was somehow on his feet again, though his eyes were still dead as anything else he'd seen. The gun in John's hands cocked of its own accord with a volume rivaling that of a churchbell's toll.

"John, no," stammered Sherlock, fear panging in his bosom like it never had before. What used to be his best friend came at him with the surety in step that identified him as a former soldier. Or, rather, _it_. But why did he live still, after shooting himself as Moriarty? He wasn't picking up anything. The dead man kept coming, and Sherlock kept backing away, fraught with horror. But the despair within him scared him more than anything, and when it blossomed into fear it was the most terror he had ever felt. His feelings would be the death of him, and he knew it. Did he? Dread sank its cold fangs into his soul.

He didn't know. How to act, how to save, how to die.

The floor ended below him, and he pitched backwards.

Accusing faces blew past him with the viciousness of the aerial drag that tore at his face. Surreal images of his brother, his enemy, his clients, his accomplices, his friend. He wished they would go away, so with a strange turn of fortune, they did. But then he looked up in a still moment that lasted as long as a supernova, inches from the pavement, into Molly's face.

He hit the ground.

His eyes stayed wide open as the pain rang through his body, staring into the deep dark of Dewar's Hollow. He felt the leaf litter below him with its damp, soaking its lifeless cold through him as if he wore nothing. He scrambled to his feet in a panic, shaken to his core by what he had seen and petrified to the bone by what he knew was coming for him. He could sense the intensity of its live fury, its dark purpose, its cruel grin. Growls and maniacal laughter, mingling until they were one noise, grating on his ears. His soul.

"Burn...the_ heart._"

The hound lunged at him, eyes aglow with the hatred of a thousand foiled crimes, real as ever. It happened so fast that all Sherlock could do was gasp for air that wasn't there, air that turned his mind to madness. Its claws raked him with an unnatural searing agony, its hot breath making him squint. But it smiled cattily, suddenly gentle to the touch. Its eyes dared him to make a move, make a mistake.

It was Irene. Lips a breath away.

But the toothful muzzle returned, and it ripped his neck out with a burning passion.

"**_ENOUGH!_**"

Existence froze.

Sherlock's eyes were open, yet they stared numbly through the dark treetops to the sky above, not bothering to sense anything about his surroundings. Now that nothing was happening, anything could happen. He was terrified.

From his left, silver light washed over him. With it came a calm that seemed almost deceptive to him, a suspicion that prevented him from releasing the fear of his initial night terror. He stood again, just as quick and graceless as the first time, eyes wild with primal fear. His heart pounded in his chest and his flesh throbbed as if aflame where the beast had attacked him, but he found himself to be whole-physically, at least. He beheld the moon before him, lowered completely to the horizon, huge enough to be within a short walking distance. The dark trees bent out of the way of its beam of light, suddenly less foreboding now that it was known that they could submit to something. But _what_ something? A something that would save him from this nightmare, or a something that would prolong it?

Out of the glory of the moon's light came a silhouette.

Winged, four legged, rearing up, eyes aglow.

It brought its forelegs back down to earth, the intense light in its eyes subsiding. It began to walk towards him at an easy pace, folding its wings away. Sherlock squinted and stepped closer, not quite believing his senses. This being a dream, anything could be, but he was still the same steel trap as ever. Because he knew he had to be.

Because if this were another, he promised himself he would thwart it this time.

She appeared to be a unicorn of sorts-but more beautiful than he thought a dumb beast could fathom, let alone become. Her mane and tail were massive, billowing beside her in an unfelt wind, stars scattered in its surreal blue color. Her mainpelt was deep cerulean, a black crown nestling in her forelock behind her towering horn. She wore a black breastplate of sorts that hung around her neck, a crescent moon emblazoned on it in pristine white. Her eyes betrayed a certain sentience, an understanding unheard of in quadrupedal beings, a gentle teal that reassured him somehow. Though all his logic and instinct told him he was dreaming and there was no possible way this was real in any way, shape or form, he had the feeling that she was here for a reason.

And if he wasn't a reason, than he wasn't Sherlock.

"We could not permit such a nightmare to continue as it was," she spoke, only half startling Sherlock with her gift of speech. Typical dreamstate. Permit?

"Control over dreams," muttered Sherlock, half to himself. At least he could deduct now, which meant that this must be a lucid dream of sorts, unlike his earlier horrors. "Only makes sense, given your obvious connection to the night. Specifically, the moon-there, on your flank. But that black blanket surrounding it? A dark side to you, perhaps?"

Her pupils shrank in surprise, though she did her best to hide it.

"Ha," he crowed, pointing at her with a mildly accusatory finger. "you're surprised, which means I'm right. But none of that matters, seeing that I'm dreaming, because that means you're also not real. But why would my subconscious conjure a unicorn? Some false sense of purity within me? Tedious. Also, why a _winged_ one? Seems a bit random, even for me. Also, you refer to yourself in the third person, which suggests some sort of medieval take on grammar. That, plus the crown and the armor, equals royalty. I am quite regal, I will admit, but _I_ never had any delusions of political power. Or do I? Caught it from Mycroft, perhaps?"

"We are not from thy own mind, fair Sherlock," she interrupted in an unplaceable accent. It sounded American, but not quite. "Or from thy own world, as thou could have guessed."

"'Guessed' is a bit of a light term for what I do, Princess," he replied. She didn't notice-right again. However, her subconscious must have, because she connected his use of her title to her own introductions. Of course, he was far ahead of her.

"I am-"

"Princess Luna, steward of the night," he blurted. She narrowed her eyes, cocking her head and stretching it towards him as if to examine him closer.

"How did you-?" she pressed.

"Royalty. Night," he explained, as if it were obvious. "Though, to be fair, the name was a lucky guesses. You could have been a queen, but typically in most cultures the moon-or whoever it is represented by-is not the highest in the celestial monarchy. Also, 'queens' typically don't wear armor and don't pop into dreams to say hi. Your name could have been Diane, or Artemis, or whatever else."

"Regardless of our origin, we have domain over the night and the dreams they instill in others," Luna continued, her eyebrows lowering as if she had guessed his most recent deduction. "as you undoubtedly realized by observing me. Thy dreams, however infrequent, are of quite an unusual potence and subject...they have not gone unnoticed."

"Nightmares, more like," he murmured with a fresh thrill of fear in his heart. She nodded, in the manner of a veteran. He knew that look from John-she had had her share of nightmares. But the way she reacted to that word suggested that her definition of 'nightmare' was more dire than his.

"Oh," he blurted, furrowing his brows at his own idiocy. "_Night Mare_. Duh."

"Well done," she approved with a smile. A tired one. She had gotten over the Night Mare, whoever that was, but it still brought her bitter memories. _Who_ever? Yes, if she was a horse, then it only made sense that there were other horses. Herd animals, after all. This Night Mare was a close enemy, judging by the look on her face. More kudos to John. Yet the mere thought of his friend, after what he'd done to Watson in the land of the living, after what he'd seen in his dream…

He shuddered and inhaled sharply.

"We know what it is like to be plagued by what one has done," she lamented kindly, walking over to him with her footsteps clopping on the earth. "to be unable to escape from oneself. We know all too well."

"How would _you_ know?" he demanded in a low voice, narrowing his eyes. He knew that he should have a better hold on his emotions, but his fear had melted into anger and seeped into his voice with a chilling effect. "How could a stranger possibly know anything about what it's like to be _me?_ To be bored? To be clever? To be Sherlock?"

Then he didn't know what that aggravating feeling in his chest was. Because her eyes told her that she _did_ know.

"Perhaps we must show you." she answered. Her horn blossomed in a white pinpoint of light, and they were gone.


	2. Will Be Me

It was dark. Sherlock was about to panic. They could be anywhere. Where had she gone?

A star kindled beside him, attached to Luna's horntip. Before him stretched a panoramic view, golden on one end, blue on the other. On two balconies, facing each other across the wide expanse of mingled stars and rays, stood two figures anatomically similar his new acquaintance. The one on the left was obviously Luna herself, though somewhat reduced in style, and she was surrounded by blues and silvers that represented the night. The moon began to rise over her shoulder, as should have been expected. But her horn glowed with a strange silver shimmer, as did the moon. A sort of levitating magic?

On the right the scene was nearly identical, however the unicorn on this side was white with a pink mane and tail, and slightly larger. The sun rose from this one's magic, though the yellow color of the magical shimmer was lost in the sun's raw glare. Gold flourished about the white one, an aura of glamour unmistakable to anyone. Even idiot Anderson.

"You raise the moon, your sister raises the sun," observed Sherlock before Luna could speak. She looked at him quizzically. "What? It only makes sense. The sun and the moon are always related somehow in ancient folklores. Almost cheesily so. Sisters, though...interesting. Both princesses, both ruled together, both glorious…"

Luna stared at him, goading him on eyes heavy-lidded. Not with want of sleep, but with regret.

"...but something got between you two," he realized. Luna nodded, closing her eyes as if she wished she could pull herself away from the pain of separation. Separation? "No, something more tangible. Something you felt. Something deep, something dark, something that nobody could talk you through or out of. Especially not your sister. What's different between the moon…"

He looked at the perfect silver circle.

"...and the sun?"

He looked at the radiant golden globe.

Shadows danced between them.

"Overshadowed," he breathed, looking at Luna with a new light in his eyes. His brain worked at miles a minute, devouring this new discovery ravenously. "You were jealous of your sister. Your citizens relished and played in the safety of the day-"

"But shunned and slept through my beautiful night," finished Luna for him. With a glow of her unicorn magic, the scene before him played even as his mind unfolded the puzzle pieces.

"Not another step!" commanded Luna from nowhere. The place had abruptly changed, but the newly revealed plot remained. The old Luna was the one at the end of the hallway, under two banners of moon and sun, eyes afire with bitter hatred. A white unicorn with gloriously flowing mane and tail stood in the center, face grim...that must be her sister. Probably named something like Celeste, or Radiance. No, something ending with '-a' or '-ia.' That would be a more queenly title.

"Did you really expect me to sit idly by while they all basked in your _precious_ light?" The venom in her voice was almost palpable. The present-day Luna beside him had vanished. That dream-fear was threatening to bud in him once more. Where had she gone? Was his own nightmare lingering somewhere, or was it only a harmless memory?

"There can only be _one_ princess in Equestria!" she declared, storming onto the center balcony. "And that princess…"

Her sister's eyes widened with terror. He could hear the shadows cackling behind him. Danger in this unfamiliar world. He had to get out. But how?

"...will be **ME!**"

Too late.

With a deafening whoosh, the air all rushed out at once. His heart jumped to his throat and his hand went to the gun as he fell into nothing. But then he stopped without landing, floating in nothing for an uncountable moment. He couldn't breathe. He gripped it until his knuckles blanched. Yet he felt an unplaceable calm for a moment...only a moment.

The shadows were still there.

He whirled around, eyes darting frantically to search for something he couldn't fight if he found it. A legato chuckle blossomed from within the formless black, its echoes resounding in dark octaves. He knew that voice. He hated it as much as he feared it. Yet he was addicted, to the chase, to the thrill, to the riddles it left for him to tear into. He was the starving dog, the voice the manipulative master. Except he knew that he was better than this, than that voice, that he could rise against it and come off conquerer. So why didn't he?

The fear.

Oh, the overwhelming, all-consuming, unquenchable fear.

It held him in place like no other vice. Fear of what? Fear of anything. Fear of the world outside, of the conflict within, of the people around whose eyes saw right through him. Fear of Him. Of his scheming mind, of his deceptive tone, of his inner insanity. Fear of Moriarty. Fear that should not exist, fear that always has, fear that never will. Fear of fear.

So much.

What could be done besides stand and scream?

"Duck!"

No other answer could have made him move from that infinite trap.

Luna leapt over him with a shrill whinny for a battle cry, skewering the shadows on the point of her horn. Shaken out of his paralysis, he sprang to his feet, desperate to fight for his life now that he had control of it once again. Luna stood in front of him protectively, wings half-spread as if she were preparing to take off, eyes ablaze with a fury unlike any he'd seen. Moans sounded from within the dark, moans that turned into screams and howls and again into laughter. That laughter that plagued him, that he knew all too well.

No! Not here!

"What is this? Just another dark terror?" he inquired hopefully, the words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could arrange them. She shook her head, gritting her teeth knowingly and backing up beside him. The shadows began to take form.

"Stronger," she panted. He noticed that her horntip had been splattered black, as if by blood. "We've come too close. This is my own-"

Then they spoke.

"...will last FOREVER!"

Night Mare.

She towered in cerulean battle armor, her face keen and wolfish. Her mane and tail billowed and tumbled like grumbling stormclouds, the cold color of the night sky reflected in their depths. Her wings swooped above ominously, like rising smoke bearing prophecy of doom. The crescent moon on her flank glistened with a false light, the violet splatter surrounding it reminiscent of the regal pride she'd once retained. But all that was gone now, all consumed by the blackness of her bitterness. All except for the eyes. Eyes that glittered with malice, that shone with a cold heat, teal dragon eyes with all memory of kindness burned away.

Those eyes stared him in the face and dared him not to cower.

"Not a step closer!" commanded Luna, standing straighter and raising her own wings. "You have no power here. This is _my_ domain, he is _my_ charge! The nightmare has been banished! You have no business haunting him!"

She threw her head back and laughed. He laughed right along with her. Sherlock shuddered and drew closer to Luna. Her shield of moonlight didn't seem strong enough to him. Would it really hold them back?

"_Banished?_" snapped the Night Mare. She said it with such a suddenness that he practically jumped out of his skin, though Luna was unmoved. "Your sister could not even banish me, and she has twice the power you will ever hold! How can you fight a demon that never leaves you? How can you fight _yourself?_"

She moved so fast he couldn't have reacted if he wanted to. Stretching like a sunset shadow, she loomed over him, baring fangs and opening wide an eternal black mouth to swallow him up. His heart dropped into an abyss. He was going to die here.

In a dream?

Then the Night Mare recoiled and shrieked. His lifeblood pounded within him. Luna's horn was black almost to the base. A spot of it was on her cheek.

"Stay away from him!" she demanded in a stentorian voice. "_Begone!_"

"In your dreams!" challenged the Night Mare.

Luna lunged, her aura falling away and clinging to Sherlock. Their horns clashed with a sonic clap and a flash of starlight, their silhouettes burned into his retinas. They struggled against each other, jousting for position, Night Mare Moon's eyes searching and Luna's pleading. Both stared right at him, their opponents forgotten. No, not at him-_through_ him.

Then Luna's gaze flashed back to Night Mare Moon, her horn sliding against the shadow figure's with an eerie grate. Offput by the sudden change in balance, the Night Mare lacked the reflexes to parry the eyeblink slash Luna served across her face. She cried out in equal parts pain and outrage, springing back with fresh hatred in her grimace. A cut on her cheek steamed ominous violet, as if the blood within was so cold that it evaporated as soon as it was released from its icy veins. Sherlock noticed a black mark on Luna's own face, startlingly similar to the one on Night Mare Moon, oozing as if it were fresh paint...or blood. No. Blood. The connection hit Sherlock in the stomach like a bullet.

They lunged at each other again.

Luna was going to destroy herself by taking down Night Mare Moon.

Oblivious to this revelation, the fight raged on. Wherever Luna pierced her she marked herself, and whenever the Night Mare landed a blow the noxious fumes from her wounds wafted stronger. The black marks left streaks on Luna's pelt, and the steam made her eyes water. Every strike scarred two pelts, opened two veins, until they were both torn apart by their own horntips and their own desperation. Sherlock was aghast at the brutal metaphor. Luna was fighting for him, dying for him, though he'd barely known her. Yet he could only stand and watch in stunned horror as the bloody scene unfolded before his eyes. What else could be done?

Their horns met again with a yellow flash, the sound ringing out with dark undertones. Their breath came through gritted teeth in frosted puffs, their teared eyes leaving a last blue line of all-too-sentient sorrow on pockmarked faces. The Night Mare was an emaciated skeleton of her former self, having bled herself out to feed the purple mist that swirled uncertainly about them. Luna was completely black with the blood of her most personal enemy, her countless lacerations coloring her purity with the darkest of sins. Standing back, Sherlock was afraid to find that he could barely tell the difference between them. Two black figures, two tearstained faces, two glowing pairs of eyes.

One torn heart.

Yet Luna was still there, far beneath the coat of black. Beneath, but not covered. That one line of blue remained.

"_Run!_" she cried in anguish.

He turned and bolted into darkness with nothing but the gun and the moonlight, the lurid sound of a lethal blow following him.


	3. No You Won't

Gun?

The echoes of her dying scream still bounced around. In his head or around him, he couldn't tell. But whose death was it? Luna's or the Night Mare's?

_Gun?_

He lifted his hand up to look at it, surprised that he could see it considering he was in the pitch black of his subconscious. He was holding a gun. He didn't have to observe the heat damage and routine care to know it was John's. But how did he get it? Had he had it all along? He couldn't recall. Not important questions, anyway-this was still a dream, which means two things. One, nothing is as it seems. Two, everything has a reason. Why did he have his best friend's gun? Had John known he would need it? No, he couldn't have. Sherlock hadn't even known. It was his job to know, and John's job to be John.

But John wasn't here.

_Is that why I have the gun?_

"You always feel it, Sherlock."

He whirled around into Moriarty.

He was no different than that first night at the pool. The dark, slicked-black hair, the pale, ghostly skin, the clever, haunting smile. But there was something off about him-more than his usual creepy self, anyway. He wasn't just insane, he was…

"But you always fear it, too," he simpered sadly, as if Sherlock knew better. "Oh, well. You could've been so much more. You could've lived, even. But you're _boring.._."

"Shut up!" commanded Sherlock, remembering how Luna had stood up to Night Mare Moon for him. She had taught him how to stand against his fears by her own example. "You're nothing but lies. You have no place here. This is _my_ head! Get out!"

"But why?" inquired Jim innocently, shrugging and opening his hands to him as if inviting him into a trap. "You're the one who invited me."

"That's not true!" snapped Sherlock, looking at Moriarty as if he could evaporate him if he glared hard enough. But he didn't move, simply twitching an eyebrow quizzically.

"Is it?"

Sherlock whirled away from him, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He brought his hands up to his face clapped together, trying to focus. With logic, he could regain his bearings and think his way through this. But if he let his fear rule him, anything could happen. It would be Baskerville all over again. Narrow it down. What was Moriarty's purpose? How could he have gotten into his dream, and more importantly, how could he be evicted?

"Thought you might _call!_" hissed Moriarty. Sherlock jumped, but didn't dare open his eyes. He didn't have to to know that he was right in front of him.

"Thought you would be rid of me so easy, did you?" he murmured. It sounded like inches from his ear. "You thought that I would allow you some peace after thwarting me for the last time? Happily ever after?"

"That's not relevant," stated Sherlock flatly. If he lied well enough, perhaps Moriarty would believe it, too.

"Well, guess what?" he continued, as if Sherlock hadn't said a word. He could picture that crocodile smile behind his eyelids, gleaming sharp with a false light. "You're not an angel. You said so yourself. So why should you deserve heaven? No rest for the wicked, after all. You're trapped, Sherlock. No way out. I may not have you yet, but I'll catch you later."

Sherlock had to focus hard on his breathing so that he didn't scream. He had to hold every tissue of his body in place so that Moriarty wouldn't see him trembling. Don't let the fear rule you. If you do, all is lost. To _him_. He was only treading water. But how could he swim to shore without attracting the shark's attention? Why did Moriarty terrify him so utterly? Did he have the strength to do anything more than stand there and shake?

All the wrong questions.

What had he said?

'Catch you later.'

"No, you won't."

Sherlock opened his eyes and boldly looked straight into her eyes.

That was what had been off about him before. Those teal dragon eyes did not belong to Moriarty. Moriarty was dead and gone, but in his mind Sherlock still kept his replica chained in that golden asylum where he dared not go. The Night Mare must be feeding off of his memories, ransacking his mind palace to unearth his very worst fear. Jim Moriarty. The only person in the world that, for one vital moment, had been more clever than him. For only that single, most important moment. The moment when he'd lost, more completely than ever. Nevermind that he still lived in secret. He'd still lost everything. John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly...all lost to him. They were all so painstakingly close, yet so far. Far enough for them to be unable to aid him. Close enough for it to hurt. He was alone now. Alone to fight his own demons. All he'd ever wanted was to be alone with his mind, but this?

The cat-eye pupils contracted to slits. It sensed that it had been discovered. Again it loomed over him, baring its fangs to feast on his soul. All the body heat and oxygen drained out of him at once, petrifying him in place. The best seat in the house from which to watch his own demise.

Far enough?

The gun burned, warming his corpse. It urged him to move like a spur in his back.

Faster than he could think, he whipped the gun out of his pocket and fired point blank.

The Night Mare recoiled with an agonized shriek, and he inhaled thirstily. The shadow before him writhed in pain, but he had no eyes for it. He held the gun up and gazed at it in wonder, observing how it glowed faintly with its own light like a star. The muzzle steamed as if live, yet as he turned it over in his hand he only felt a decent warmth. Assuring warmth. John's gun had just saved his life when his own mind had been choked with fear. How?

His enemy snarled with pain, rearing its ugly head with bared teeth. It still held the guise of Moriarty, but the image had been twisted somehow. One of his eyes had been replaced with a pitch-black bullet hole, steaming violet just like Night Mare Moon. His fingers had lengthened into claws, his teeth into fangs. It was poised to pounce, as if it were going to tear Sherlock limb from limb himself, but then it paused, eyeing the gun. Sherlock stepped toward it and gesticulated with the weapon, causing it to step backwards and hiss inhumanly. Sherlock only flinched slightly, but as long as he held the gun raised he knew that he could defend himself. Right?

Its nose twitched, as if it could smell his fear like sulfur. It grinned sickeningly and drew itself taller. The heat kindled in Sherlock's core faltered. His hand immediately went to his eyes. The right one remained. The left one was gone.

He yelled and turned away, holding his hand up to his face to see it coated in his own black blood. But he heard it coming for him, so he whirled and shot again. He must have missed this time, because it merely snarled at him again, and he felt no bullet. Time to rethink. How could he defeat it if doing so would kill himself?

Oh. Duh.

He knew the answer. He'd done it before.

Forgetting the Night Mare for the time being, he looked himself in the mirror. Truly. Without expecting to see anything. And it was revealed to him as promised.

Dark, slicked-black hair. Pale, ghostly skin. Deep, deceitful eyes.

"Ohh..," he murmured to himself, his voice silky and all-too-familiar. He sighed and looked up into the night sky, before looking back at himself again. Then, instead of comprehending the horror of being his own worst enemy, he chuckled.

"You were right, you know!" Hearing that from Moriarty's voice was gratifying. "I really _am_ an idiot. Not boring, per se, but really, I should've seen this. I could've prevented all that if only I'd figured it out sooner!"

He laughed some more. He could've been stalling. He didn't want to do it. He knew he had to.

"So," he said promptly, raising his eyebrows at himself. Oh, how he hated that face. "what're you gonna do, Night Mare Moon? Scare the daylights out of me? Take the bullets to take me down? Or just cut out the middle man and skewer me?"

He knew she was behind him. Listening. Watching. Waiting. Whatever you do, don't turn around.

It really was obvious. Everything happens for a reason in a dream. Dreams are lucid metaphors, they originate from the waking world. So if _he_ was Moriarty, and he couldn't defeat the Night Mare…

The gun burned.

"Good luck with that," he murmured, putting the barrel in his mouth.

The gunshot rang in his ears. The bullet tore through his skull.

And William Sherlock Holmes awoke and drew breath for what felt like the very first time.


End file.
